Steely Dan “Gaucho”

How I ever got to be 65 years old without having friends who regularly use the phrase “High in the Custerdome” as shorthand (for something!) would seem to be one of my major failings in life. Maybe it’s merely because I have few friends and none of them happen to be Steely Dan fanatics, at least to the degree I am, but it could also be that—seeing how Becker and Fagen refused to ever give a straight answer about what that means (good for them!)—perhaps we’re a little wary it could refer to something untoward, such as age inappropriate relationships or humor that some Native Americans might find offensive. Don’t need to get cancelled once again! Of course, it’s possible that the “real story” came out in an interview or something I might have missed—though you’d think the algorithm would have shoved that in my face by now—in one of those articles requiring you to click though 65 ads to get to the unsatisfying conclusion. Also, I do have my own theory, which is admittedly a little nuts (but then, so is that line, in the chorus from the title track, right?)—though I’m convinced my interpretation is “spot on”—but I’m not going to repeat it here, as it’s discussed in my “review” of the song, on the Steely Dan page of my website (rspeen.com) —which reminds me, I need to get back to that! At any rate, I’m not going to talk about the album, song by song, here, since my favorite approach to SD has been focusing on a song at a time, with particular emphasis on the lyrics—which is why I’ve found the band, since I’ve initiated that approach, more fascinating than ever. Here, I’m just going think about the album as a whole—and try to keep it short. Good luck with that—it’s already not short!

Besides Pretzel Logic, it’s my favorite of their album covers—mysterious and distant-feeling art, from Argentina, I guess, that seems to be on a wall. It’s very cool. You’d guess it was jazz album. I barely remember what record buying felt like in 1980, actually, but I don’t recall this fitting in anywhere. I don’t think I bought it at that time—I was through with Steely Dan. I’m trying to listen to it right now with fresh ears—totally impossible. Though, had I put it aside for 45 years, it might be. I’ve listened to this record a lot over the past few years, however, as I’ve slowly started to come around to it. There was a time that, not only was it my least favorite SD record, but also, I kind of despised it—I found it bland and insipid. But about 10 years ago, or so, as I became, somehow, a bigger fan of the band in general, I decided I’d make appreciating this album a project, and I’ve slowly come around to it. I know that for some “Dan” (as the fans say) fans, this one is the absolute pinnacle—or if not, second to Aja or maybe The Royal Scam—and I respect that opinion. Part of my increased geekdom has included ranking the albums, ranking all the songs, and seeking out the oddities and adjacent records. I’m a bit over that, now, but it’s a lot of fun to approach certain music that way—that’s part of what being a fan is about.

My best approach with Steely Dan, however, as I said, is a song at a time (picking them at random)—to go as deep as possible with the song—many listenings, headphones, following the lyrics, etc. It’s not like their albums don’t mean anything as albums, but you can really approach each song as something to be reckoned with. They don’t have weak songs, or filler, not at all. Most bands have primarily filler, to go along with their “hits.” Writing a great song is not easy, and even one on an album is an accomplishment. There are only seven songs on this record, but they’re all great. Each one has an epic feeling. I have written short articles about a few of them, now, and not surprisingly, those are my favorites, at this point. And even though I’m not going through this record, here, now, song by song, I’ll admit that on this date my favorite is the song, “Gaucho”—and it’s a challenge for me to even figure out why. It could be the contrast between what I find a really off-putting opening (that first verse almost makes me want to puke) and the overly slick yet sleazy saxophone, throughout—the contrast with all that and the really lovely, lush chorus, which is the musical equivalent of falling in love.

Besides that, “Time Out of Mind” is the funniest song—and again, that’s partly due to contrasts—it’s so happy and easy sounding, while the lyrics are just pretty grim. While I’ll likely never have any idea what “Gaucho” is about, if this one isn’t about a love affair with hard drugs, then I need to turn in my Hardy Boys Detective Handbook. Sure, maybe it’s all metaphorical. Ha. Anyway, those are two songs I’ve taken the time to put under my major nerd microscope, and my appreciation for them has prospered. Along with “Hey Nineteen,” which I maintain is generally misunderstood. And that’s all I’m going say, for now, except that I repeatedly have an odd sensation while listening to this as a full vinyl album—which is: As few songs as there are—Side A feels like a full course, and then the first three songs on Side B feel like a full side—and that last song, “Third World Man,” almost feels like a bonus track, or a single—like it almost doesn’t fit—but not in a bad way. It’s a really beautiful song, a bit melancholy, and I guess, like disappearing down a dark road. Maybe it’s because this was the end of Steely Dan. Did we or did we not know that, or get that, at the time? Of course, it was, and it wasn’t. It is, and it isn’t.

6.6.25

Dave Loggins “Personal Belongings”

This is one of those records I picked up purely for the cover—knowing nothing about Dave Loggins. This is his first album, 1972. There’s a full cover color photo with the title strung across it like a big smile. The photo is of (I’m assuming) Dave Loggins, a bearded white man with a turtleneck and a denim jacket, sitting there with his hands folded, partially enveloped by fog, or smoke (smoke machine?) and then, just behind his right shoulder is a blond woman—and because of the smoke, she looks like a disembodied head. It’s kind of frightening—and they both have similar, unreadable expressions that I’d be likely to interpret as disdain for the photographer. Ha! But it’s a great cover—people come away with some lame album covers—which is baffling to me. All you really need to do is take a sharp snapshot of the artist in question doing something like frying eggs—blow it up to full album size—and you’ve got a classic cover! Or an odd portrait with smoke and unnerving perspective and expressions works, too. But instead, so many artists will do something like use like only six square inches, in the middle, for a stock photo of a flying seagull or something. It’s confounding. But anyway, this one is excellent.

So, right in the first song, the progression of the chords, it’s almost like a dream of something you know—you can almost hear it coming—like the ghost of a familiar song—until you’re expecting it, any minute: “Even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you honey…” But it never comes, because it’s not that song! I mean, it’s not exactly like “Danny’s Song,” but just enough to be disorienting. Kenny Loggins wrote that song about his brother—was Dave another brother? No Dave and Kenny are second cousins. I’m never sure exactly what that means, twice removed, all that, but the crucial thing is they’re related—all Logginses! They’ve got songs in their blood. Also, this song has enough of a Christian slant that you have to wonder if Dave Loggins, in his solo career, considered the professional name “Loggins and Messiah.”

The next song is a perfectly nice, folk, pop song called “Pieces of April”—a very good one. All of these songs are written by Dave Loggins, so he’s not hiding behind anything. Crystal clear, and you can understand the lyrics. Unfortunately, sometimes: “A box of candy for to see you smile.” Love songs—and occasionally some curious lyrics. The crucial last line in “Claudia” goes, “Our love will always grow, but what would a tree ever be if it didn’t have branches.” Which could be somewhat problematic, metaphorically… depending… not sure how to take that. I should have guessed there’d be a folk element—Vanguard label, folk instruments, songs called “Sister Mary Ryan” and “A Sailor’s Misfortune”—which is also a fine song, maybe my favorite on the record.

5.30.25

Vince Guaraldi Trio “Jazz Impressions of Black Orpheus”

This is kind of a double record, side one being one thing and side two another, though they both fit together like peanut butter and… anything—and I kind of wish it was really a double record, as in, extra disc with more of what I’m sure was recorded, even if it’s outtakes, etc., because it’s all very cool and endlessly listenable, repeatedly lovely. It sounds like someone put the needle on Side One of this one about 1000 too many times—yet, it still works! The first side is songs from the film, Black Orpheus (1959), bossa nova classics by Luiz Bonfá and Antônio Carlos Jobim, songs that you know even if you don’t know you know them. These versions by Vince Guaraldi Trio—VG, piano, Monte Budwig, bass, and Colin Bailey, drums—are very nice—to me, unsophisticated as I am, sounding somewhere in the vast ocean between Latin and jazz. Exotic while also household as Frigidaire—I can’t listen to VG without always seeing some Charlie Brown or other come to life, but I mean that only in the best way.

The second side starts with the VG’s hit song “Cast Your Fate to the Wind” (another you’ve heard and probably know intimately, even if you get the name wrong on Jeopardy!). That’s followed by “Moon River”—a version that’ll make you forget the lost cat. And then another Guaraldi composition, “Alma-Ville,” which brings a place alive (I’m s’posin’ Alma-Ville) and you might imagine a jazz enthusiast beagle or something. Finally, the hit ballad “Since I Fell for You” (Buddy Johnson), so lyrical I don’t miss the lyrics—well, I suppose I’m singing along but no one has to know that. Also, there’s some heady liner notes by Ralph J. Gleason, and I’m here to tell you, nice reading over coffee—because that’s what I just did—while listening to this record, once again.

What are my impressions? It’s a super laidback jazz trio record—piano, bass, and drums—and I believe it’s the only Vince Guaraldi I have—they’re not easy to come by in the cheap record bins, in my experience—or I’d have more. This one must have sold a lot—since I managed a cheap copy. I have decidedly shallow pockets—have I made that clear? I’m surprised I even found this. You’d guess that his Great Pumpkin soundtrack sold a “bajillion” copies and should populate thrift stores everywhere, yet you never see it, and reissues even cost a lot. Anyway, this would be a good record to put on during a date, while mixing the cocktails. That’s assuming I’m the one mixing the cocktails—maybe we should be breaking up the chores—since I’m spinning the records and adjusting the soft lighting, maybe she’s making the cocktails and deveining the shrimp—or should I take care of the deveining—no one likes to do that. I’m assuming shrimp cocktails—but what if it comes down to real cocktails? Am I ready to start drinking again in order to take the edge off dating? And what if the cocktails she makes are like hazelnut butterscotch cookie dough “martinis”—or some current drink I don’t even know the name of? Icebreaker, or Dealbreaker? (Sounds like I just invented a new gameshow!) And does anyone really do that? Put records on, and then have to keep changing records during a date? Some advice, my friend: if you’re buying a turntable, make sure you get one with automatic return. When the needle gets to the end of the record and keeps going round and round in a that scratchy way, it’s a real mood-killer. Even if you’re at home alone and listening to records while cleaning, or cooking, or writing about records.

5.23.25

The Flock “The Flock”

It starts out with a violin-heavy “overture” called “Introduction”—should I write a song called “Introduction”—the absurdity of it! Maybe a song called “Preface” and one called “Foreword”—anyway, it’s nice for what it is—it sounds kind of like the soundtrack for a comically pretentious short documentary film depicting the trimming of an aristocrat’s moustache. It’s a great lead-in to the heavy-duty rock opening of the next one—an 8-minute song called “Clown”—this one is pretty hot—heavy-duty for a bit—and then has a really nice, cooking violin bridge part—and that leads to a really long, lingering instrumental that sounds like a slow coda—is that the ending of a song? Where normally it would fade out after the right amount of time—but instead, there’s a crazy sax and trumpet part—dueling saxes (and trumpet, I guess)—and then more fading, just the bass left playing this repetitious part… and then right back into it! “I Am the Tall Tree”—starts out slow and quiet, harmonizing, then builds and builds—huge dynamic shift—it even has a little bridge where they sing “The Russians are coming” repeatedly—I wonder if I can find all the lyrics—it’s an epic in under six minutes. Finally, “Tired of Waiting”—credited to The Flock—but it’s The Kinks’ hit (minus “For You”)—just a wacky take on it—a really good version, actually—maybe this was intended to be the “single” even though not (remotely) seeming like a singles band—if you took out the violin intro, it could be shaved down to four minutes—so maybe? It has a great guitar solo—you had to imagine the ol’ Kinks were approving of this version, unless they were just being jealous wankers about it. Or didn’t like it being credited to “The Flock” rather than R. Davies—I wonder if there’s a story there?

Side 2 explodes and catches on fire immediately with a classic speaker-melter—no really, there’s something smoking (oh, I was drying a pan, I always do that, and forget), a drum break, then nuts guitar solo, cowbell, then it stops for a vocal: “store bought, store thought,” and then heavy jam again, then some vocals I can’t understand—then it drops down to just acoustic guitar and flute, and dude is singing about “robots” (what the hell?)—then back to an insane instrumental part that actually tops the opening. And more of the same—I can’t understand the lyrics at all—a great song, another epic, seven minutes. Whew. Then, an extended—and I mean… 15 minutes plus (uh, oh) song called “Truth” (uh, oh), it’s an extended blues, and dude is a fine blues singer, and the violin is a very nice blues compliment—but then it goes into a long, long, long instrumental that wears out its welcome about seven minutes in. Well, there’s some hot sax in there, but it’s a relief when we get back to the bluesy stuff, and singing—and then it finishes out with cacophony—excellent!

The album cover got my attention—an odd font: “The Flock”—and a black and white group photo that appears to be maybe the stillest moment they could pull off—several of them engaged in smoking various substances. I’m not listing the band member names—because there are so many of them (and I’m assuming that reader has the internet and can happily research what each band member has done post this band). Name-wise, you might get them confused with the NYC law firm, Glickstein, Goodman, Karpman, Smith, Canoff, Webb, and Posa (though not with “A Flock of Lawyers,” the infamous 1980s Kent, Ohio zine). Seven longhaired white guys, all but one with facial hair, two with sunglasses, one with a hat, and a lot of leather. If I didn’t know better I might have guessed they were part of the cast of a Fassbinder film, or a European prog/experimental band with a name like (    ) pick any obscure, ancient deity here—they have all been used as band names!

Why weren’t they a bigger success (i.e., household name) than they were? We’ll have to wait for the inevitable documentary, I suppose (every documentary is these days inevitable). It’s not like it was too early, 1969, for that extent of fusion of styles and genres and approaches—well, maybe it was too early—a lot going on musically here. Maybe because it’s a band band, without an obvious focus, like front man—though I’m suspecting that the dude (Jerry Goodman?) whose picture is on the back album cover—flying hair, no shirt, wailing violin—would have gotten your attention. Liner notes by John Mayall that are quite glowing—he says they’re the best band he’d heard in America. And so they are! I mean, what is success anyway—they had this record on Columbia, and a follow-up record (which I’m going to try to find) and then some more, later. They are certainly the best band playing here in Speen HQ on a Friday in 2025—and as far as I’m concerned, that translates to immortality, which is a lot more impressive than one annoying radio hit that still gets played on “oldies” formats and makes your ears bleed and want to give up on popular culture.

5.16.25

The Archies “Catching Up On Fun” flexi-disc

I’m pretty sure I got this flexi-disc off a box of Honeycombs cereal—like it was part of the box, and you had to cut around the dotted line (once you were done eating it)—in 1970. Still smells faintly like Honeycombs. There’s a garage sale price sticker on the “label” part—1 cent—so maybe I bought it—or maybe I tried to sell it, and no one was buying (really?)—but either way, I know I got several of these off cereal boxes—gone now—but I have this one. It’s actually 33 1/3 RPM (not 45) but it still plays fine—a little scratchy, but it works—which is a little bit amazing. This one was a series of four songs—all listed like it’s a four-song record, but you only get one at a time. I don’t believe I heard “Catching Up On Fun” anywhere else—it’s an okay song—not one of my favorites. It’s a bit, “I’m gonna go out and try to have sex with everybody.” The “fun” in question is “love,” as in makin’ it. Naturally, it sounds exactly like The Archies. Several of the cartoon characters are pictured, dancing, on the disc, along with a yellow background and black musical notes. So it’s essentially a picture-disc, as well! Ten of them, hippie-era—Archie has a polka-dot shirt, and the girls have miniskirts. I think that one woman is Sabrina—who turned out to be a witch, right? No doubt she was the one they went to for drugs. I used to read Archies comics—I didn’t go for the Superheroes—they creeped me out—especially the disturbing, twisted, sexual undertones. I was kind of a square kid—I liked the bubblegum pop version of sex—though there was still a lot of sex—especially in the comics.

5.9.25

The Hello People “Fusion”

As you might expect from a 1968 release in which two-thirds of the band are mimes, the music on this record is all over the place, from pop and country to psychedelic rock to jazz and folk. Along with bad-trip acid rock, there are songs that sound like the most radio friendly stuff you’ve ever heard, TV theme songs, Saturday morning cartoon, supper-club goofing, conservatory jazz, church music, and serious movie soundtrack tearjerkers—as well as serene-trip acid rock. Fans of the flute—you’re home! I’m not sure about the percentage of mimes—I’m judging by the six band member photos on the inside album cover—well, one of them is entirely in silhouette, or maybe the back of the dude’s head—but four are definitely mimes. How does that translate as more than a duo, sound-wise? Well, I think a musician can go back and forth from singing performance to mime performance, and it’s okay. I remember seeing David Bowie on some late-night music show when I was a kid, and he was doing some unmistakable mime business, and it worked out—I was both frightened and mesmerized. I didn’t go join a troupe or anything. Some people say they can’t tolerate mimes, but I think this is one of those affected hatreds (such as aversion to winter, clowns, fruitcakes, rainstorms, and Steely Dan) based on people wanting to “fit in”—more than any genuine, open-minded dislike.

And I suppose that’s all water under the bridge, seeing how they are one of the few record-releasing Sixties bands who are NOT still together and playing on this summer’s festival circuit. Too bad, too, because their lyrics—those that are of a political nature—are as relevant now as they ever were. There’s a bit of info on their Wikipedia page—one of their most catchy earworms (songs) was banned in some cities for being against war. Yet they were also on TV—appearances on the Tonight Show and The Smothers Brothers, even. As you might expect with the mime theme, the band members all had stage names, which I’m not going to list—but the one that cracks me up is: “Country”—a guy whose real name, W. S. “Sonny” Tongue, could have carried the day, just fine, unadorned, no problem. Looks like they put out about seven LPs over a decade, and that was it, but I wouldn’t mind finding a few more, like this one that doubled as a TEAC/Tascam 4-track instruction record. Their last LP is titled: “Lost at Sea”—and I’ve got to say, it would please me very much, as well, if my last record (but would you, realistically, know at the time?) had that title. Lost at Sea—the aptness and the poetry and the nautical. I’m not sure if this one—Fusion—consciously referred to the variety of musical styles—or—nuclear fusion—as in against it as a weapon, or, for it as a way to warm the swelling population without cutting down trees. Could easily be: “all of the above.”

5.2.25

Bonnie Nelson “Live”

Subtitle: “Live at the Country Palace with Speedy Haworth and the Stateside Express”—kinda prepares you for the 100-yard-dash. This is the kind of record I love to find—1979—never heard of Bonnie Nelson, but it’s country, on a small label (“Hop-A-Long”)—homemade feel with good sound—it probably captures one of her live shows very well. But for me, personally allergic to “jauntiness” as I am—not my thing at all. Most of the songs are that kind that sound like someone’s going to yell “hoedown” any second and leave you in the dust. Nice version of “Sealed with A Kiss”—one of those hits from my childhood that I can tolerate—same with “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.” There’s a ballad called “Love from a Woman’s Point of View” that makes me wish the whole record was ballads. Bonnie Nelson has the kind of voice that, if you were in a raucous crowd of hundreds, you’d be able to make out every word she said, clear as a fucking bell, even speaking in conversational tones. Certain songs (like uninspired covers of overly-familiar hits) can really sink a side of a record, but at least if it’s at the end, you can lift the needle, like “An American Trilogy” at the end of Side Two. But “The Streak”—dead in the middle of Side One—is like a turd on the living room carpet—I’m not even going to look up who recorded that novelty song that plagued my youth days of AM radio. I don’t remember, but I do remember every line, every inflection, every pause and stupid sound effect—it’s a song that even gives novelty songs a bad name—not to mention streaking and “humor” and levity. But the fans seem to like it.

4.30.25

The Lilac Time “Paradise Circus”

Staying in a cabin in the “North Woods”—no TV or internet—just 50 pounds of venison jerky, an old hi-fi, and a water-damaged box of records—they play fine. This one looks intriguing—never heard of The Lilac Time! Canadian? No. PolyGram, 1989. That singer sounds familiar! No band credits on the back cover, however—just egomaniac producer credits. The band could be any number if interchangeable Eighties Nineties competent pop combos—but who is that singer? I know I’ve heard him—maybe from another band? Moonlighting? Could it be… Robyn Hitchcock? After all, he was in the Soft Boys and the Egyptians—could The Lilac Time be another? Toning it down a little? No? Maybe that guy from Coldplay, but before Coldplay? No wait… I think it could be Mick Jagger. He did a lot of solo records—why not this one?—the codeword for “not with the Stones” is… Lilac Time. But that’s just crazy. Then it comes to me… Emeril Lagasse? I don’t even know who that is. The out-of-focus cover shows four guys, presumably in the band (and I’m making assumptions on the gender, based on posture as much as anything). It’s so out of focus that one is led to believe it was the photographer’s intention! The back cover lists song titles, producer credits, and an overlapping group of entirely uninspiring photos (it makes me think this record also came out on CD because this looks like the kind of random group of photos that made the entire history of the CD booklet not even worth preserving). I finally drive into town and pay some sketchy peckerwood $10 to use his internet. Not Hitchcock, but I knew that. Not even Alfred Hitchcock. Neither Jagger nor Lagasse. It’s some guy I never heard of, and I forgot to write it down! Musically, a bit of variety as well. The song “Paradise Circus” is an accordion instrumental—they’re stretching out! The next song has a “zydeco” influence and is pretty nice… for a bit, anyway. Guess what? The Lilac Time are still together! This was their second LP, and they’ve come out with ten more on nearly as many labels. And there are some nice pop songs popping out on this one, but some of these songs are lukewarm bummers, and it’s CD-era-endless.

4.25.25

Sarah Vaughan and the Count Basie Orchestra “Send In the Clowns”

I guess this 1981 record is pretty late in the careers of Sarah Vaughan and Count Basie—though it’s the Basie Orchestra, no Count Basie present—and Sarah Vaughan is more than present—this is some strong, full-of-personality singing, and the record sounds great. The big band is really big, overly big, loud and full—but I like that it’s a vinyl record, and is warm and present, and it doesn’t have that cleaned-up digital robot sound of contemporary big band stuff, like you hear in restaurants. (For me, 1980 forward is “contemporary.”) The Count Basie Orchestra apparently made appearances without him in attendance, and this is one—and they made records after his death (still going strong to this day). I wouldn’t presume to be able to judge Sarah Vaughan performances against each other, as I only have a handful of her records, but if there are ones that sound better than this (and the odds are likely, just because she has lots of records) those must be impressive indeed. By the way, I have another Sarah Vaughan record that is titled “Send In the Clowns”—it’s from 1974, and it’s a good record. She must have loved this song, and her dramatic interpretation here is as good a version of that song as I’ve heard. In spite of the C-word reference, it’s not one of my favorite songs. I always felt like it was around forever, but it’s from a Sondheim musical in 1973—after which everybody and their singing Aunt had to cover it. I do like the sentiment, but I find the song pretty cornball. I’m glad I like the version here. And I like all of the rest of the songs here—lots of the usual standards—all good stuff. My favorite is “If You Could See Me Now.” Great liner notes, by Dan Morgenstern—interesting and smart. And the cover is a nice photo of Sarah Vaughan in action—not as memorable as the clown photo on the other “Clowns” record, but that’s more or less, in this case, I don’t mind saying it, not an entirely bad thing.

4.18.25

Jackie and Roy – “Storyville Presents Jackie and Roy”

Originally (I think?) released as “Jackie Cain and Roy Kral,” this record is a re-release on Storyville records—so, I’m not sure about the year. Let’s just say 1955. Wait, there’s another record, exactly the same title, same year, same label, with a great (very different) cover, totally different songs and sidemen. What is going on? So… I guess this is one of their first LPs—well—if you can figure out their very early discography, based on your collection, memory, or online info—you’re a far better madman than I!

Anyway, I got this one! It’s old, sounds crystal-clear in the way only really old stuff sounds—before pop groups started gumming up the works with their bullshit. Everybody knows Jackie and Roy… except me—well, this is the first I heard of them. I bought it knowing nothing about them, and in spite of the gnarly album cover—a kind of mustard-gas tinted b&w photo of… I have no idea what—it looks like part of a destroyed piano—and then in the foreground, someone’s hideous bare feet—the kind of photo that epidemic-ized Instagram, because—you’re holding your stupid phone camera—what’s the first thing you see in front of you? Your hideous feet, that’s what. I saw a picture of them from back around time—not ogres, by any means—so you have to wonder about the choice of the album cover! Still, I bought it—and it’s a fine LP. Jackie Cain and Roy Kral sing (and don’t hold back, are not shy). Roy plays piano, and there’s a hot band: Shelly Manne, Barney Kessel, and Red Mitchell.

One number one (number one hit in the alt-universe where things are ranked by how interesting they are) hit after another, believe it or else! And the fine song selection is listed on back, including a few I know (via Sinatra, as usual) and some I don’t know. Some intriguing song titles like: “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most,” “Bill’s Bit” (drill? Or is Bill a horse?), “Tiny Told Me.” And my favorite, an amazing number called: “You Smell So Good.” (I thought it might be Millsap & Spooner [Kiss Me, Stupid (1964)] but no, it’s Tommy Wolf.) Liner notes are by Alec Wilder—dude simply goes overboard with enthusiasm—I wonder if he’s still with us, and if I could afford him to do my liner notes? Oh, missed him by 45 years. Anyway, Jackie & Roy—they kept cranking out the albums up to the end of the century, through rock’n’roll, punk, disco, hip-hop, cassette tapes, 8-Tracks, the death of vinyl, CDs, the rebirth of vinyl. I don’t know… maybe they succumbed to all of it. I do have a later record of theirs (haven’t written about it yet) called “Changes”—uh, oh, and by the song titles, they appear to have been afflicted—like so many recording artists of the Sixties—with Lennon-McCartney-itis. Hopefully, maybe, they create something unique with those proverbial chestnuts!

4.11.25

George Shearing Quintet “I Hear Music”

This is a fantastic Shearing Quintet record that you might be able to pick up for nothing (he released so many records, and many of them, seemingly are not that collectable—as is a lot of jazz—lucky for me). It’s on MGM, and I believe it’s a 1955 12-inch version of the original 1952 10-inch—but with a few additional songs. It has a kind of low-rent, modern art cover—it resembles one of those “Percussion in Hi-Fi” records. But it’s great from beginning to end—a dozen songs, all good, including the four Shearing compositions. It sounds to me like there’s more space on a lot of the songs than in some of the later stuff (I mean later, as in the Sixties). But that might just be particular to these recordings. Or perhaps it’s just blue-sky day, today, or an ice-cream parlor in Hell. There’s a bit of very general, uncredited, liner notes about the “Shearing Sound,” and then notes on each song, including composition and song origin, and individual musicians—not uniform on the whole record—so I’m not listing them all here. There’s fine playing by everyone, all in attendance—but also some of my favorite Shearing piano solos from any Shearing record. Yes, I’ve gone on and on—in the past—about how George Shearing is the most memorable music of my entire childhood—what I heard from the crib (or before) until moving out—but I’m keeping this review short (it’s the new way!). Every single song here is a standout, so I’m not listing them all, or any of them. All twelve of them, fine. Also, I have more Shearing records, currently, than any other artist, so there will be more LP reviews, soon. But this really may be my favorite one, so far.

4.4.25

The Gaylords “Chow Mein” / “Poppa Poppadopolis (The Happy Locksmith Man)”

Another 45 by The Gaylords—I previously claimed that I had four of their records—but I only have three—but still, that doesn’t explain how I got them. Though, I’d pick up any record with “coffee” or some type of food in the title, and chow mein is no exception. (I am keeping an eye out for their 1958 LP, “Let’s Have a Pizza Party.”) They were a vocal group from Detroit—this one is from 1955. The first record I listened to (see review from 2/20/23) was quite romantic—this one is not, really, unless your idea of romance is making out in a Chinese restaurant… so, on second thought, maybe it is. It could be considered a “novelty song”—though, what would be a novelty, for Westerners, would be to record a Chinese themed song without the stylistic stereotypical parody of Chinese music. Besides that, the song is awesome on several counts, some of them lyrically. “No more chow mein yaka mein beansprout/ no more lychee nut wonton soup…” They get right to it. The singer expresses a sincere sadness at the closure of his local chop suey joint. Another great line: “My love and I remember/ how we spent our flaming youth/ eating egg foo young and kissing/ in the red and yellow booth.”

The B-side, “Poppa Poppadopolis (The Happy Locksmith Man)”—which is the longest title by The Gaylords (or anybody) is the saga of a locksmith, in “Athens,” told by their “grandma”—who turned out to be the very person who stole the heart of grandpa—who turns out to be the locksmith. Then they had kids, who presumably had kids, who are now singing this historical account, including the line: “Now the story is complete.” (I always love that.) The song employs jangling sleighbells as additional percussion, but we’re meant to believe they’re jingling keys—well, maybe they are keys—I wasn’t there—this was 1955! One more note on The Gaylords—that I noticed on the Wikipedia page—a little aside that explains that the group’s name was decided upon “after a chance encounter with Marcus Wren.” No further explanation, no footnotes. After five unsatisfying google-minutes, I decided to engage the ol’ memory—that name rings a bell. I believe he’s a character in the Star Wars universe—the one played by Brad Dourif—in the episode directed by the Titmouse Brothers—grandsons of the Insidious Locksmith of Hoovercam.

3.28.25

Buddy Cole “Buddy Cole Plays Cole Porter”

Make no mistake—the subtitle of this album is: “At the Bösendorfer Piano”—but a little more on that later. “Buddy Cole Plays Cole Porter is a clever title—with that format, you could come up with an entire series of records (and maybe there is one, a series, that I don’t know about) like, say, “James Taylor Plays Taylor Swift”—is the first one that comes to mind. I’ll stop there and save further possibilities for a future “game night.” Pianist Buddy Cole, along with an orchestra conducted by Pete King, interpreting a dozen Cole Porter classics, in classic style. I’m not going to name the songs, except to say, I know nine of them in my sleep, mostly from Sinatra versions, and the other three I recognize, but wouldn’t be able to name in a trivia contest. Half of them have the world “love” in the title. I’m sure you know the songs—each of them will outlive these artists, the record, us, listening, and the technology. Well, you could say Cole Porter lives on—with these songs. Buddy Cole will live on with this record, as well—and there’s a great album cover. Two guys are sitting at a rickety table and chairs, playing chess, in the middle of a city street! Enormous 1950s cars whiz by on either side of them. It looks like they’re moments away from getting run over by a taxicab. For all I know, the two men could be Porter and Cole—in fact, this could have been the end. I looked up their bios, and sure enough, they died in the same year—1964, only about three weeks apart. This record, however, came out in 1958, so that would have meant they both spent six years in the hospital with ultimately fatal, photoshoot injuries. Not real likely.

Seemingly the impetus of this eminently listenable record is the Bösendorfer piano that Buddy Cole played on the recording—apparently quite a piano. I admit, I was not familiar with this particular instrument—but I am now! The extensive, uncredited, back-cover liner notes spend a couple, brief paragraphs discussing the two men, but the rest of the glowing coverage is for the piano! I mean, I am familiar with pianos—there was one in my home, growing up, and then one in the home of my piano teacher, Mrs. Patterson. It’s possible that hers was a Bösendorfer—I have no recollection of it—but it’s not likely. I guess they are fine pianos, made in “distant Vienna” (as opposed to Vienna, Illinois), and few are (or used to be) made, so they were somewhat rare on this side of the pond. Also, very expensive. But according to these Bösendorfer-heavy liner notes—they make all the difference. Perhaps if my parents had a Bösendorfer, instead of the nice piano we had, I might have become the next Buddy Cole. Probably not, but I’d have had no excuses, then, to be a piano-lesson-dropout. They’re not cheap—I looked online—the first one I see is $190,000 (with free shipping) (really? Free shipping?)—and here’s one on eBay for $395,000! The funny thing is, the liner notes just go on and on and on about this Bösendorfer, as if this was a Bösendorfer advertisement. Maybe it is. Does or did Warner Brothers own Bösendorfer? But also odd, on the back cover, there are a few “suggestions” for other records by other artists—none of them Buddy Cole—and a few of them are on other labels! What’s with that? Maybe… all those records also feature the Bösendorfer? I’ll have to look into that. This mystery lands firmly in the category of “still ongoing and open.”

3.21.25

Frank Sinatra “Look to Your Heart”

This 12 song Capitol release from 1959 is considered a “compilation” I guess—songs from previous records—earlier in the decade (Fifties)—but to me it sounds like it could have been recorded in one session, on a Wednesday, say, in March (a day much like today, but before I was born—you know, 60 to 70 years ago). I suppose it’s all Nelson Riddle orchestra. And the picture on the cover could have been taken from this (imaginary) session—Sinatra, suit and loosened collar, white tie, hat with a band that resembles a coral snake. But no, I guess—someone put these songs together from the archives, and found this really nice photo from the archives, with his hand over his heart—not unlike yours—the one he's telling you to look to. I’d like to think he approved the song selection, the production, the cover photo, and the goofy graphics on back—and then they all went out to eat somewhere, steaks and martinis, with the crowds kept away, more or less. But what do I know about Sinatra? I’ve been reading some musician bios lately—I like them—what’s the best Sinatra bio? Or is it that documentary that came out a few years back—where can I find that, now? People have all different measures of success, and I’m sure Sinatra’s varies from “the usual” to… unique. For me, for instance, not having to write my own synopses, monitor love on a smartphone, or get into a flying machine are all fantasies I’d consider: “you’ve got it made.” What could be better? Well, songs at my fingertips. That would be, even, better. By the way, my favorite songs here are: “Anytime-Anywhere,” “When I Stop Loving You,” “If I Had Three Wishes,” “Look to Your Heart,” “You, My Love,” and “Same Old Saturday Night.” Though, all twelve are fine—and fit together like a deli sandwich. There’s a uniform excellence, indeed, no clunkers, nothing that makes you feel the least bit like you’d rather be on another planet—even if that’s the way you feel, in general, a lot of time.

3.14.25

Mercy “Love (Can Make You Happy)” / “Fire Ball”

Oh, I know this song. When I saw the 45 on a heap of neglected freebies, I picked it up as a potential mystery—I’d never seen the “Sundi” label. But as soon as I heard it, it came right back, courtesy some challenged memory cells. Where would I have heard this? On the radio, I suppose, 1969, on the AM radio, WLEC at breakfast and CKLW on my portable transistor. I imagine some airtime. There are any number of old songs, from the beginning of time until the present, that bore me, don’t do anything for me, annoy me, nauseate me—but this isn’t one. I love this song! It starts out slow, with guitar and piano, and then the singers, “Wake up in the morning…” A beautiful, sunny, summer morning with nothing on the horizon except a day of doing only what you feel like. Maybe reading a book for entertainment. Subtle, actual drums, and then a great chorus, “Love can make you happy…” And the song stays right there, doesn’t try to go off to another planet or anything. It’s merely saying that “love can make you happy.” Not a tremendously original statement, and it’s followed by the big “IF”—if you find that person. But it doesn’t dwell on that, and it fades out.

“Wake up in the morning” is a great way to start a song, by the way. I’m going to get out a piece of paper right now and write that down, as the potential beginning to a potential song that I might potentially write. The B-side, an instrumental called “Fire Ball” (two words, for no good reason), starts with a fuzzy guitar, medium fast tempo, and sounds like a surf song—or, if there’s no surf anywhere handy, it still may have been stolen from some surf song, or borrowed, I mean. If it’s not surf, it’s most certainly about a hot-rod, or a fast car of some kind. Some nice guitar in there. It doesn’t sound remotely like the same band as the other side—nothing connecting the two at all—but there’s no rule that says every song by a band has to sound enough like every other song by that band so that any moron could identify it.

And then, I noticed, via the internet, that this song (“Love”) was in a movie in 1968 called Fireball Jungle (fantastic movie poster), so now it’s all making sense. I look for it—it’s on YouTube, and it’s about car racing and crime, and there’s a scumbag named “Cateye.” Could be a mislaid classic. And the band, Mercy, are in a scene, singing their hit song in a diner—the whole song—right about at the 15-minute mark (the standard place where you normally throw in some nudity for exploitation purposes). If you’re a teenager at the movie, and a couple, this will get you in the mood for a little handholding, making out, even, and you can maybe even then ignore the next hour of tough-guy posturing, blustery threats, brutal violence, and car accidents.

3.7.25

Joni Mitchell “Ladies of the Canyon”

I somehow managed to escape from adolescence with very few Joni Mitchell records (or, well, I had a few and lost them) so maybe I’ll keep an eye out for the ones that don’t cost one million dollars. I wasn’t a big fan as a young kid—there was something too alien about her, too confusing for me—or maybe too woman-oriented, and I couldn’t relate. I sure couldn’t figure out what she was playing on guitar, for the most part. But now that I’m nearly an adult, I’m increasingly up for challenges. This 1970 record has the two songs from that “Superstars of the Seventies” collection (“Big Yellow Taxi” and “Woodstock”) which were, for a couple of years, my sense of Joni Mitchell. I like this album cover a lot, credited to “Joni”—so guess it’s a self-portrait, a simple line drawing—looking half-done, but it couldn’t be anyone but her. Then a very small section (about the size and shape of a slice of pizza) is filled in with simple but vibrant watercolors. Not much there, but it feels entirely specific, like you could find the place (or could have in 1970) from the very minimal clues—you get the feeling of the hills of Los Angeles, some modest houses (affordable at the time?) maybe hippies and artists there. There’s a blue VW bug parked in a garage—it could be the most minimal representation of the “Bug,” ever.

Six songs per side, and the cover opens up and there are lyrics there, either handwritten incredibly small by Joni Mitchell—or else it’s a font—called “Induced Migraine.” You can pretty much understand the words anyway, but I’m thinking this is a record I want to pay close attention to the words, and so that’s what I’m doing. I’ll have to listen through a few times because there are some evocative ones—references to places, geography—which reminds me of how the most significant seeming feature of my dreams is the geography. I always talk about this when I talk about dreams. So that makes me think that maybe these songs are somewhat dreamlike… and they are. Like most songs, a lot about relationships, family, friends, and I guess, are mostly, are to some degree, romantic. Of course, “Big Yellow Taxi” is one of the more happy-go-lucky-sounding angry environmentalist songs you’ll ever hear. It’s a good approach. “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot”—you can’t say it much better than that. That observation is never dated, and never will be until humans are cured of that insanity (parking lots) which isn’t likely to happen anytime sooner than the Earth is cured of that insanity (people). “Woodstock” always creeped me out a little, in that its words are celebratory, but it sounds (acid) trippy and a bit scary—not celebratory as much as a lament for the end of human life on Earth. Could this song’s approach be a conscious effort to represent both the good and bad acid, simultaneously? Or else, maybe, the “yin and yang” of acid—is that a thing? I might be completely off base here, of course, since I’m not an acid guy. I’m not even a baseball guy.

The record starts off with “Morning Morgantown,” which has a catchiness of such devious capacity that they named an earworm after it (Morning Morgantown Earworm). It gets in there and doesn’t let up. Does anyone else wake up in the middle of the night to pee—and then after you pee and you’re going back to bed (and hopefully sleep) you realize there is a song going over and over in your head? It happens to me all the time—not necessarily earworm songs, either—but maybe not everyone is susceptible to this kind of thing. Anyway, the only way to alleviate the Morgantown is listen to the lyrics and try to figure out what it’s about. (West Virginia, or a state of mind? Or both?) I doubt if I can find anywhere, like on the internet, people discussing Joni Mitchell lyrics. (That’s one of my jokes, the kind people don’t seem to get, like when I said I had “around 150” photos on my phone!) “For Free” is a particularly lovely one, and I relate like it’s yesterday (with the clarinetist, not the singer—but the singer, too—that’s a magic trick). Lana Del Rey recorded this, on one of her albums—with two other singers, trading verses, which is an inspired approach. It seems like most of the songs are portrait songs, her poetic observations of people, with warmth, and with a certain knowing and unknowable depth. This one, “The Arrangement” is a copious lament to a “you”—that I might find it worthwhile to ask around about. “Rainy Night House” is equally as mysterious—and disturbing— but in a way I can’t exactly nail down.

I’m reading half-a-dozen books about musicians, currently—I guess I like books about musicians—but a little here and a little there (i.e., I read slowly). Is there good writing, somewhere, about Joni Mitchell—a book, or many books? Obviously, there is, but how can one choose? Can I trust the inter-nest to tell me? Perhaps that will be my next project, as another Farraginous February wraps in glorious song and silence. It’ll be spring all too soon. Yesterday I walked along the river at noon, alone (people still avoiding that treacherous boardwalk?) and it struck me as particularly beautiful, the place where the upriver ice ended and then it was just water, at the confluence. (Not the sex-toy company, but the place where the rivers meet.) There was an alone duck swimming, or floating—but moving fast. Then I saw an alone gull, sitting on the very edge of the ice, at the edge of the water. Just one. Anytime I see a totally solitary bird I wonder what’s up. Should I worry? Probably not. Probably just out there listening to music, making tentative plans.

2.28.25

Renaissance “Novella”

I liked a solo Annie Haslam record (called “Annie in Wonderland”—from 1977, same year as this one) that I stumbled upon, so much, without knowing anything about her, that I looked for more, and saw she was in the band, Renaissance, which I had never heard of when I was a 17-year-old punk rocker who more or less despised stuff like this by 1977. It’s dramatic, and catchy enough, but in every way overblown—the first song is 14 minutes long, with heavenly choirs and tolling bells. On further listening, the overall sound is growing on me, like mushrooms—and I imagine a certain edible fungus could be the magic key, here. Also, drinking mead from an enormous wooden cup hewn from an oaken log. Or whatever you make wooden cups from—be careful not to poison yourself. Same with the fungi! And I have to note, I’m doing none of those things, actually—it’s got to be all about the music, for me. The acid inspired cover opens up, and the entire inside is taken up by lyrics (in a font called “Induced Migraine”) that looks like they’re etched on a mausoleum wall. Maybe it’s wrong of me, but I’m not going to read along—I’ve got things to do and places to be… on Earth. Anyway, somehow I’ve ended up with five of their records from the Seventies, so maybe at some point I’ll take a “deep dive” and experience a Renaissance renaissance, just by sheer numbers. What I’m really looking forward to, however, is when the magic number comes up on that Annie Haslam LP—but that’s all a matter of chance. In the meantime, I’m afraid I’m not going to return to my early prog rock days and find a way to love this one—but according to the internist, the band is still a band—so dare I hope for an appearance at this year’s Renaissance Faire? Oh, well, according to their warm and informational website, their “farewell” tour was in 2024. But, then, you never know—fans are still out there, and musicians need to eat.

2.27.25

Klaatu “Sir Army Suit”

If every time a band that was heavily influenced by the Beatles released a record to rumors that they were the Beatles, you’d have a scandal once a week. So, I’m not sure how that happened back in 1976, when that first Klaatu record came out. Someone in the marketing department had an inspiration? —I suppose. I was wondering if I wrote anything about their first record (which I used to have)—and I did, back in 2007! On this, their third LP, from 1978, they prove that they can sound like all kinds of bands… Blue Oyster Cult, Electric Light Orchestra, Kansas… though hopefully no Kkaatu-ian wears a tux with a straw hat or goes on stage in bare feet… or sings backwards. Ultimately, it’s pop, with a Capital p. There’s a lyric sheet, and the last song is printed backwards! But when I try to read it in a mirror, it’s still backwards—it all (doesn’t) make sense when you hear the song! Part of the reason those early rumors came about was because they didn’t include their pictures anywhere, but on this one there are more clues. The front cover drawing shows a long line of people walking over a bleak (Canadian?) landscape toward a rising moon, and on the back cover (drawing) we see several of them approaching—who are they? Fortunately, we now have “AI” to help us solve these kinds of mysteries! So, according to “my phone,” it’s: Ed Sullivan, Maurice De Vlaminck, Norman Mailer, Ian Anderson, “Woman with Basket,” Klaus Kinski, Peter Pan, and Wendy!

2.26.25

Willie Nelson “To Lefty from Willie”

Willie Nelson’s tribute to Lefty Frizzell, recorded the year he died, and released a couple of years later in 1977. They were close to the same age, actually, but LF died way too young. Hopefully WN will live forever. Seeing how I love Willie Nelson, and I love Lefty Frizzell, this record should be a home run, but unfortunately, for me, it’s underwhelming, a base on balls, so to speak. I can’t really put my finger on why, which bugs me a little (not as much as it might bug a fan of this record, reading this!). I guess this is when I’m glad I’m not a music critic, because I just can’t figure it out. Those folks (music critics) aren’t paid enough—wait, they’re not paid at all, anymore. Anyway, it doesn’t help that the album cover looks like a wedding invitation—the kind I dread seeing arrive in the mail. Anyway, I do like this record, I’m just sad to say I can’t “marry it.” It does remind me that I have a Lefty Frizzell cassette somewhere, which I was really into at one point, but I’m not set up to listen to cassettes at this time, and that makes me a little sad, too. I only have a few Willie Nelson records, but I’ve always admired him in every way and think his voice is worth a giant monument carved out of a mountain or something. I have to admit that part of my less than excitement is that I’m not in love with the recording, here, as top-rate, of course, as the players are. I hate to keep harping on my dislike of harmonica, but there you go—even though it’s played, here, by harmonica legend Mickey Raphael—for me it’s like all dessert and not enough main course. It’s like my intolerance of wheat gluten—if you had, say, Joël Robuchon prepare me a meal, ten percent of which was wheat flour, I’m still going to be driving the big white bus.

2.25.25

The Four Aces Featuring Al Alberts “Tell Me Why” / “A Garden in the Rain”

Evocative band name, seeing how being dealt four aces in a hand of five-card poker is virtually a mathematical impossibility—without cheating, that is. Why do I say stuff like that? Just because, I guess, the thought of someone reading it and blowing their top amuses me. No, the internet says the odds are 1 in 54,145—not bad odds, actually—the lottery is much worse—infinitely worse! And people play the lottery every day. Still, it’s an excellent—though somewhat obvious—band name. At one point, in the early days of rock’n’roll, before there was the internet, there were 54,145 bands with that name—before this Four Aces sold millions of records, to become the “ace” Four Aces. This 45 looks like it rode into my collection stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe, but it still plays great (if scratchy) and it sounds exactly like you might think 1951 would sound (say, imagined in a movie). “Tell Me Why” is catchy and romantic, vocals in the forefront, of course. I particularly like the organ, way in the back, sounding like it’s floating in randomly from the place next door. Same goes for the standard, “A Garden in the Rain”—it’s a catchy one. A lot of people recorded that song—it’s a great song. Sinatra’s version comes to mind, plus, who else? Diana Krall’s is my favorite. Nothing against the Aces—it’s just that I was there with her. Not literally, of course—but that’s how she makes you feel. I have no Diana Krall vinyl, so I mention her any chance I get.

2.22.25